In the Name of Salome (36 page)

T
HE FIRST
S
UNDAY OF
Mon's visit, Camila asks that her friends Guarina and Primitivo be invited to the big dinner at noon. Her stepmother, of course, turns the gathering into a repeat birthday party, since Mon missed the April festivities. Paper streamers hang from the pillars of the galería just as they did for her quinceañera party. Back then, a group of Max's musician friends played, and everyone danced on a makeshift platform set up in the garden. Primitivo had written her a poem, “Rimas galantes,” and he recited it to her as they danced a danzón. The first dance, a waltz, had been reserved for her father. Her stepmother had actually been nice about it and taken herself and the three young boys and Pimpa for an overnight
outing to Cuabitas, letting Camila be the mistress of the house, for once.

Today, just before her friends are expected, Camila, dressed in her mother's black dress with the silver comb in her hair, joins the family in the front parlor.

The moment she comes into the room, Papancho's face clouds over. He pales and puts his hand to his heart—the threat of a heart attack always part of his performance of displeasure. “That is not appropriate for a quinceañera party.”

“Why not?” Mon has come in behind Camila, dressed in what looks like gray drapery. With her girth, Mon's clothes have no shape to them.

“Black is not the color for a birthday party. And I hardly have to tell you, Mon, that such a dress brings painful memories.”

“How about your beautiful lavender,” Tivisita says, helpfully. She comes forward to escort Camila out of the room, almost as if the tone between Pancho and Mon is not appropriate for a young lady to listen to. The little boys are still in their room being dressed, and the punctual Primitivo has not yet arrived. As for Guarina, she is being picked up by Max, which means she will not be on time, as Max is always late for anything someone else has planned. “Your lavender dress will go beautifully with that gold medallion.”

“I hate that dress,” Camila blurts out, knowing full well the comment will upset her stepmother. The dress, fussy with bows and gathers, was a gift from Tivisita for her quinceañera party. Camila never liked the dress, but Papancho insisted she wear it so as not to hurt her stepmother's feelings. “She hunted all over Havana for that dress,” her father had explained to Camila.

“But it looks so nice on you,” Tivisita says quietly. That look comes into her eyes: something she wants to say but cannot bring herself to mention to her stepdaughter.

Together, they leave the room, the voices in the background rising, especially when Pimpa joins the discussion of what is and
is not appropriate for a young girl of fifteen to wear to a quinceañera party.

Back in Camila's room, Tivisita opens the mahogany armoire. “What would you like to wear, Camila? I mean, besides that dress.”

“The beautiful lavender,” Camila says with more sarcasm in her voice than she had intended.

“Why do you say that?” Tivisita asks, looking pained.

“Because if I don't wear it, I will be in trouble with Papancho.”

Tivisita nods thoughtfully, as if she is finally realizing Camila's predicament. “I understand,” she says, which surprises Camila in turn, as her stepmother has always seemed a shallow woman, someone whose thoughts could be skimmed from the surface of whatever she was saying.

They arrive at a compromise dress—neither her mother's black silk nor the overdone lavender gown, but a cream lace dress that has recently been delivered by the seamstress to the house. “Are you sure, Camila?” Tivisita hesitates. The dress has been made expressly for her commencement in September. “It's rather dressy for just a dinner party, don't you think?”

Of course, her stepmother is right. But Camila refuses to alter her choice and find herself in agreement with the woman. “That's what I want to wear,” she says, biting her lip so as not to cry at her own awful peevishness.

Tivisita glances up at the portrait above Camila's bed, an uncertain look on her face. She is a small, delicate woman, so that Camila always feels she should be nicer because she towers over her—as if over a child. When Tivisita finally nods, Camila can see the hairpins holding up the pompadour on top of her head. “I'll go fetch it then.”

The dress is being stored in Tivisita's armoire under a sheet for protection. Camila chose the fabric and lace trimmings in part to aggravate her stepmother, who felt that such a dress would be too extravagant for an afternoon graduation.

As she reenters the parlor, she finds her father unpacking
books from the trunk, while Mon on a small ladder places them on the shelves. How did they manage to make peace? she wonders. As querulous as her aunt is, she has never disowned Papancho and his new family. “You can't choose who you are related to,” she often reminds Camila.

“Now that is much better,” Papancho says, smiling at Tivisita.

Look at me!
Camila wants to cry out. Almost as if he has heard her thoughts, her father turns to her. “That is a beautiful dress, Camila. You look like a bride!”

“I love your dress,” Guarina agrees when she arrives a moment later.

Her brother Max follows behind Camila's girlfriend. “I only surround myself with good-looking women,” he flirts. Guarina hides her smile behind a gloved hand. At twenty-four, Max is nine years older than Camila and Guarina. Why can't he find a girlfriend his own age? Camila thinks as she slips her arm through Guarina's in a proprietary way.

As Primitivo takes his place beside her at the table, he leans over and whispers, “You look lovely, Camila, just like your mother.”

Camila colors with pleasure. But a moment later, she realizes that Primitivo has never seen an image of Salomé. The only portrait hangs in her bedroom, which the young man is not allowed to enter. He must be comparing her to her stepmother!

He can stick his compliment where the sun never shines, thank you!

H
ER FATHER TINKLES HIS
glass with his spoon, calling the table to attention. He is so handsome and elegant with his silvering hair and mustache there at the head of the table. Guarina has confessed to Camila that her father looks “very presidential.”

In the silence before Papancho intones grace, the parrot calls out, “Chow time, amigos!”

The children laugh, but Camila's face burns with embarrassment.

“¿Qué dice ese bendito animal?” Mon asks, directing her question at Camila as if only her niece can be trusted to tell her the truth of what this dreadful animal is saying.

“It says to eat your food!” Cotú, the oldest of the half brothers, announces to the old woman. He has already stuffed his mouth with mashed plantains, which he displays to the table as if to demonstrate how it is one chows.

“Cotubanamá, por Dios,” Tivisita says, shaking her head with obvious pride. The boy grins, biding his time. “I am so sorry, Mon, you know how children are.”

“
Some
children,” Mon observes.

“My theory is that the parrot was a mascot for the rough riders,” Max observes, no doubt hoping to change the subject. “That's how he picked up all those ill-mannered expressions in English.”

“Ree-mem-berrr-da-Maine!” Cotú calls out. “Da-hell-to-Espain!” Eduardo and Rodolfo join in.

“Hush now,” Camila says quickly before Paco becomes encouraged and goes through his whole repertoire of disgusting Americanisms. The boys glance up at her, little Rodolfo offering her his most charming smile. He looks so much like Tivisita! she suddenly thinks.

Today, they are dressed like sailors in navy blue outfits with white trimming, Rodolfo's ribboned cap still on his head. The poor child has been jealous for days, since Mon arrived, and his favorite companion, big sister Mamila, has been sequestered away in her bedroom, talking, talking, talking, refusing to open the door to his howls.

“I would like to make a toast,” Max stands up. Her brother has gotten so stout and manly in the last few months. For the past year, he has lived in Mexico with Pedro, but after a bout of lung trouble, which Papancho feared was tuberculosis, Max came home
to recuperate. He has been staying up in the country, at Cuabitas, where fresh air, daily exercise, and five shots of rum a day have restored him to near perfect health. Love is doing the rest.

“This is a splendid gathering,” Max begins, removing a sheet of folded paper from his pocket. “Not since Greece have so many Graces gathered together.” Camila hates it when Max gushes with compliments. It's
so
embarrassing. She looks over at her friend to share a smirk, but Guarina is smiling. “And so in honor of my dear aunt and sister and her lovely friend,” a nod in Guarina's direction, “I have composed a poem for the occasion—”

“Can we eat first?” Eduardo pleads, though he knows the rules. Poetry is sacred in this household. Whenever anyone stands up to recite, all forks and spoons must be laid down.

Today, Papancho intercedes on their behalf. “I think it is best if we wait for the poem until later, son, so the food does not get cold.”

Camila can tell Max is annoyed to have his poem deferred, but he will not show his temper in front of lovely Guarina. Instead, he sits down and begins reciting it quietly just to her, not realizing that he is sitting on the side of her bad ear. But Camila has promised not to say anything to anyone about her friend's increasing deafness. They have traded secrets: Guarina's deafness for Camila's first kiss from Primitivo; Camila's growing annoyance with her stepmother for Guarina's frustrations with her strict father, the general; their likes and dislikes among the young people around. But there is a secret Camila cannot admit even to her best friend: the funny sensations she has when they have sat together in bed, propped up on pillows, reading her mother's poems.

Glancing around the table, Camila sighs with relief. Everyone seems to be finally at peace: Primitivo and Max are in deep conversation with Mon over one of Salomé's poems. At the other head of the table, Papancho is conversing with Guarina, trying to extract conversation from the shy girl. The boys are comparing
mouthfuls, Pimpa fussing now at them, now at their nanny Regina. Only Tivisita at the far end seems withdrawn, listlessly spooning her sancocho into her mouth. Camila has a sudden shocking premonition:
Tivisita is going to die soon
. But perhaps this thought is not so much a premonition as another of those secret wishes she cannot talk about, even to Guarina.

She feels awful when these dark thoughts come in her head. And yet, she tells herself, it is probably no different from the way Tivisita feels about her. No doubt her stepmother wishes Camila had died right along with her mother in that dark sickroom. She remembers how angry she was when Tivisita named her first child, Salomé, as if wanting to replace both Camila and her mother. “It's my mother's name, and she gave it to
me
,” she had told her stepmother. “Salomé Camila.” Later, when the infant died, Camila felt guilty, as if it were her anger that caused it.

But something has been happening in the weeks since she wrote to her brother Pedro. She no longer wishes she were dead. She finally has a lovely girlfriend and a young man who calls her lovely, even if he seems more taken with her mother's poems and her stepmother's looks than with her. But this is far better than the desperate loneliness of the last few years. Who knows? Maybe soon, she will surprise herself and burst out of her shell like the naked Venus in Pancho's artbook from Paris that Camila loves to gaze at.

Tivisita glances up, and catching Camila's dreamy gaze, she smiles back. Quickly, Camila looks away before that other look comes on her stepmother's face.

“F
ELIZ CUMPLEAÑOS
,”
TIVISITA
marches in, singing. The cake on its platter is blazing with candles. Behind her the two oldest boys are trying to follow the tune on their violins. Camila bites her lip so as not to laugh at the caterwauling sound.

She glances toward her friends and smiles in apology. Thankfully,
Guarina smiles back as if to say, Don't worry. It's just the same at my house.

Why does Tivisita have to make her go through this? She knows how much Camila hates being the center of attention. The cake is a rich chocolate, her favorite, and Tivisita has gone to quite some trouble to make the little marzipan lady at the center. It is July, the heat in the kitchen is unbearable. Anyone making marzipan in this weather deserves a medal.

Camila touches the medallion around her neck and whispers a quick apology.
In your name, Salomé
. How awful to compare her mother's accomplishments to her stepmother's marzipan.

“What are you wishing for?” Cotú wants to know.

“I can't say,” Camila reminds him, though in fact, she has not made a wish, so concerned is she with her imagined offense to her mother's memory.

“Yes, you can! Tell us your wish!” Cotú insists. The oldest of Papancho's new family has a striking, indigenous look no one can trace to a known ancestor. Max's theory is that the Taino name that Papancho once used as his pseudonym and then gave to his newborn son, Cotubanamá, has worked like the Creator's Word in Genesis and made the boy into a likeness of his native name.

“Wish! Wish!” Rodolfo beats heartily on his plate. His aunt Pimpa swoops down and wrests the spoon from his hand. The baby, of course, bursts out crying again.

“Come sit by me,” Camila finally calls out when no one has been able to quiet the bawling boy. Across the table, Ramona is shaking her head at this new wife who cannot control her children.

The baby's high chair is brought around and placed beside Camila. To keep him happy, Camila turns to him periodically, reminding him of how they will go get seashells at the beach with Mon, how they will visit Cuabitas and catch butterflies and tickle big brother Max's toes, how he can have a second serving of cake and keep the marzipan girl if he is a good boy.